Though, if you ask her name, she says Elise,Being plain Elizabeth, e'en let it pass,And own that, if her aspirates take their ease,She ever makes a point, in washing glass,Handling the engine, turning taps for tots,And countering change, and scorning what men say,Of posing as a dove among the pots,Nor often gives her dignity away.Her head's a work of art, and, if her eyesBe tired and ignorant, she has a waist;Cheaply the Mode she shadows; and she triesFrom penny novels to amend her taste;And, having mopped the zinc for certain years,And faced the gas, she fades and disappears.